


Seven Years of Christmas

by fennecfawkes



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 70 Percent Fluff, Christmas, Clint Barton-centric, Feelstide 2014, Fix-It, Get Together, Getting to Know Each Other, M/M, Meet the Family, SHIELD Husbands, Team as Family, Traditions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-02-26 15:29:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2657069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fennecfawkes/pseuds/fennecfawkes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Clint & Phil's Christmases together over the years. (First Christmas together, first after they've become a couple, last before the attack on New York, first after Phil dies and they're still separated, after they've been reunited, etc.)</p><p>Canon divergent here and there. Not my characters, except for some.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seven Years of Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> One thing before we start: this fic was finished between episodes 7 and 8 of season two of Agents of SHIELD. Other canon divergences include the nature of Phil's relationship with Audrey and Phil having a sibling (despite what AoS says, I refuse to believe that man isn't an older brother).

_December 24, 2008_

Clint had never really been much of a Christmas person.

Sure, he and Barney got two, maybe three presents every year when their parents were alive, but the day always devolved into Dad drinking and Mama huddling in a corner, so those holidays, they’re not memories Clint dwelled on. By the time Clint was 35, they were hardly memories at all. Same went for the foster parents who really, really got into Christmas, with their massive display of lights and blow-up figures on the front lawn and not one, but two turkey dinners around the 25th. Obviously, those were much better memories, but they happened so long ago that Clint couldn’t grasp much of them anymore, couldn’t remember what color Mrs. McCluskey’s hair was or whether he got a remote control car or boat in his stocking. Then there was Carson’s, and holidays weren’t much of a thing when you were in a year-round circus, and after that—well, mercenaries didn’t have the best sense of time, now, did they? Otherwise, Clint probably would’ve timed his first meeting with Phil Coulson a little differently. Such as it was, Phil found him face down in a gutter in Albania on Easter weekend after he botched his assassination of the guy who was planning to assassinate the Albanian president. Phil shot the assassin instead, and then he shot Clint in the foot before telling Clint who he represented and how much they were willing to offer him for killing bad guys on an official level.

(Those weren’t his exact words. But that was how Clint heard them.)

Eight months later, Clint sat in his cramped but comparatively luxurious (considering previous circumstances) SHIELD dorm room, hung over from a night out with Rumlow, Carter, Sitwell, and Woo. Hill and Coulson had showed up at some point, too, and Clint had done his best to extricate himself from Carter, who had a crush and wasn’t shy about it, in order to talk to Coulson. Clint also had a crush, and it sure wasn’t on Sharon. Unfortunately, Coulson was in and out before Clint had the chance to say much more than hello, so he drowned his sorrows in a few more beers. He’d learned long ago he wasn’t an angry drunk like his dad, just a confessional one. That was how Sitwell found out that Clint was gone on Coulson, had been since the day Coulson shot him, and Sitwell swore he wouldn’t tell. But then Coulson showed up at Clint’s door at 11am—too early, Clint thought—and Clint couldn’t be sure Sitwell kept his secret.

“Late night?” Coulson asked when Clint opened the door.

“Do I look that bad?” Clint rubbed his eyes. “It was, I guess. You got out of there pretty early, though.”

“Yeah, I don’t usually go to the group gatherings like that,” said Coulson. “But Hill insisted I had to since it was Christmas Eve and my family doesn’t celebrate till the 26th.”

“Shit,” Clint said. “It’s Christmas?”

Coulson looked amused, or as amused as Coulson ever looked. “I’m going to guess you haven’t quite caught up with the idea of a calendar yet. Mercenary work can do that to you.”

“Yeah, and circus work, and orphanages, and drunk dads,” said Clint, and Coulson’s expression turned a bit more somber. “Oh. God. Sorry. Didn’t mean to be a downer. It’s just—yeah. Christmas. Not my strong suit.”

“I don’t know if it’s possible to be bad at a holiday, Barton.”

“Oh, believe me, I am,” Clint said. “I mean, I haven’t even invited you in. You can come in.” Clint stepped aside and Coulson walked into the room. He looked around—and there really wasn’t much to look at, Clint would have to do something about it at some point—and shook his head.

“I’ve told Nick before we need to restructure the budget and renovate these rooms,” said Coulson. “They’re far too small. Even a Level One deserves more than this.”

“As a fast track Academy graduate who just got his Level One certification last week, I’m both flattered and offended, sir,” Clint said. He pulled out the chair from beneath the desk and sat, gesturing toward his bed. “You can sit if you want. Sorry I don’t have any better options.”

Coulson nodded and perched on the edge of Clint’s bed. Clint attempted to fight off the frankly ridiculous effect Coulson merely sitting on his bed had on him. “Congratulations on making it out of the fast track program, by the way,” said Coulson. “It’s a relatively new idea. Mine, actually. Someone with a skill set like yours shouldn’t have to labor through years of training just to get out in the field.”

“Thanks,” Clint said, and his heart was so warmed by the mere thought that Coulson had respect for him that he nearly vomited at his own sentimentality. Well, that or the hangover. “Didn’t you say in Albania that you’d be my handler? It’s been two months since my first mission.”

“I know that, and I was otherwise occupied for your first few missions,” said Coulson. “After the New Year, I imagine I’ll be seeing a bit more of you.”

“More early morning visits to my dorm, then?”

“It’s past 11, Barton.”

Clint shrugged. “Feels earlier. Did you have a question or something?”

“Actually...” Coulson reached into his suit pocket, because of course he was still wearing a suit on Christmas Day. Hell, he probably had a Christmas-specific suit. He pulled out a small white box with what looked to be purple twine wrapped around it. Standing, Coulson took a couple steps toward Clint and handed him the box.

“One step toward getting better at Christmas is learning how to graciously accept gifts,” he said.

Intrigued, Clint untied the twine as Coulson—who apparently knew Clint’s favorite color, which, weird, but OK—sat down again. Clint took the top off the box, revealing a bottle with a familiar label.

“Skanderbeg cognac,” said Clint. “Did you pick this up before or after you shot me in the foot?”

Phil waved his hand dismissively. “I shot you for your own good. And so you wouldn’t run.”

“Well, thanks, anyway.” Clint ran his finger over the label, not knowing quite what to do with his hands. What he wanted to do concerned Coulson and his fancy suit and potentially removing said suit. But the timing probably wasn’t right for that. As if it would ever be. Clint cringed then as he realized something.

“I don’t have anything for you,” he said. “I didn’t know—”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Coulson. “That’ll be next year’s lesson. You did well with this one. You accepted your gift like a champion. I’m sure next December, you’ll be giving gifts with the best of them.”

“I appreciate your confidence in my abilities, sir,” Clint said, saluting, and Coulson very nearly smiled as he stood.

“Merry Christmas, Barton,” said Coulson, walking to the door, still ajar. “I’ll leave you to your hangover.”

“Merry Christmas, Coulson,” Clint said. Just as he was doing his best not to stare at Coulson’s retreating back, he blurted out, “I’m not dating Carter. She’s nice, but she’s not really my type.”

Coulson looked over his shoulder and stared at Clint for a moment. An extremely long, somewhat excruciating moment. Then he said, “Duly noted, Barton,” turned back around, and walked away.

Clint looked down at the bottle in his hand. He wasn’t entirely sure what he should take from the gesture. Did Coulson want to give Clint something he could remember their first meeting by? If so, how could he possibly think Clint would forget the way it felt when Coulson told him he was wanted, even needed, by a group of people who could be called good in an objective sense? Clint’s life—it hadn’t been an easy one. Moments like that, moments when he felt like someone was looking at him and seeing something more than nothing, they’d been few and far between pre-SHIELD. It wouldn’t take much for Clint to admit that the last few weeks had been some of the best of his life. And Coulson, well, Coulson was certainly a part of that.

Clint got up and back into bed, shoving the bottle underneath his pillow. If that was pathetic, at least no one was around to see it. Hey, Coulson had given it to him. A Christmas present. It was up to Clint what he did with it.

_December 24, 2009_

“You ready?”

“Yeah, be there in a sec.” Clint rifled through his drawer for a pair of socks. Natasha, not understanding the implicit command to stay in the hallway, on the other side of the door, walked in and immediately spotted the one thing in the drawer that definitely wasn’t a sock or underwear.

“What the hell is that?”

“Oh.” Clint picked it up and put it on top of his dresser. “It’s a music box. A Christmas present. I haven’t wrapped it yet.”

“Who’s it for?”

“Coulson.” Clint wound up the music box and it opened, revealing a tiny porcelain figure of Captain America. The chirpy sounds of “Star Spangled Man with a Plan” filled the room. “Pretty neat, huh? He loves Captain America. Like, a scary amount. And as far as I know, he doesn’t have one of these in his collection yet.” Natasha didn’t say anything, so Clint went on, “Found it at a flea market upstate a couple months ago. He and Carter and Quartermain and I had to go investigate why every child in Utica was turning green, and I was supposed to be picking up lunch or something, but I noticed the flea market and I couldn’t resist.”

“You got Coulson a Christmas present?”

“Yeah.” Clint pulled on the socks he’d taken from the drawer before shoving his feet into his boots. “Thought I made that clear.”

“Why?”

“He’s—well, for lack of a better description, he’s teaching me how to Christmas.”

“How to Christmas.”

“I don’t have much experience with holidays,” said Clint. “You know, orphan, carny, merc, et cetera. So last year he taught me how to receive a gift, and this year I’m supposed to learn how to give one.” He and Natasha fell into step together as they headed from the dorm to the bar where they were planning on meeting up with Sitwell, Carter, Rumlow, and a few others. Coulson had mentioned he might stop by, too, presumably since it was the Friday before Christmas and, as Clint recalled, he wouldn’t have left town yet. In the year since Coulson gave him the cognac, Clint had learned ... well, not a lot about Coulson, but certain things, details Coulson had given up when they were in the field or Clint was crashing on his couch after a too-long morning meeting. (Clint would never understand why SHIELD, a _secret agency_ , had morning meetings like they were fucking accountants or something, but he didn’t dare ask. He was still too indebted to and intimidated by Fury to do something that dumb.) He knew Coulson’s parents lived in Schaumburg, Illinois. He knew Coulson had two nieces he shamelessly spoiled. He knew Coulson liked Thai food and basketball and Cormac McCarthy novels, and he knew Coulson hated seafood and American football (he even called it that) and anyone of the opinion that _The Da Vinci Code_ was well written. But it wasn’t enough. It was never enough, because while Clint appreciated Coulson’s friendship, he’d be _ecstatic_ if Coulson wanted to be anything more than that. Which he clearly didn’t.

“So the rumor’s true, then?” Natasha asked.

“Which one?”

“That the reason you and Coulson both break so many junior agents’ hearts is because you’re desperately in love with each other, but neither of you has the balls to do anything about it.”

“That cannot possibly be a rumor,” said Clint.

“Why do you say that?”

“How far away is this bar?”

“You’re not going to escape this conversation, Clint,” Natasha said, and he knew she was right. He and Coulson had picked her up in Budapest only a couple weeks ago, but already he felt like he’d known her—well, at least as long as he’d known Coulson, and Coulson was the best friend he’d ever had. (Though he wouldn’t tell Coulson that, considering he doesn’t even call Coulson by his first name—Phil, by the way—and Coulson would probably laugh.) She could read him like a book, and often did.

Clint heaved a sigh, a long, drawn-out, melodramatic huff of breath, and said, “Yeah. On my side, it’s pretty much true. It’s been true since the bastard shot me in the foot so I couldn’t get away from him. But I kind of don’t think Coulson has a sex drive. If he does, it’s extremely well camouflaged.”

“So you’ve never noticed how he looks at you?”

“He doesn’t look at me in any way,” said Clint. “I mean, yeah, he looks at me when we’re talking. And I guess other times, too. Like when we’re in the field and it’s radio silence and I decide to—why are you laughing at me?”

“Because you’re ridiculous,” Natasha said. “Bar’s right up here.”

Coulson was at the bar and looked pleased when Clint asked if they could exchange gifts the next day. Clint tried very, very hard not to read into that.

.:.

“They only made 125 of these!”

In the time that had passed since the previous Christmas, Clint had been upgraded from Level One to Two and, eventually, Three; as such, he’d upgraded to one of the larger dorms at HQ, and his salary was higher, so he’d furnished the new room nicely. He and Coulson sat together on the couch (purple, but not too purple, maybe more of a mauve) as they opened their gifts, and Clint had literally never seen Coulson so happy before. He wasn’t even getting the chance to thank Coulson for his present.

“Yeah, but I’m pretty sure they only made one of these,” said Clint, holding up the arrowhead. “Where’s it from?”

“The Chippewa-Cree reservation in Montana,” Coulson said, winding up the music box. He looked even more ecstatic when the song began to play. “Barton—Clint—I can’t thank you enough. I never thought I’d get one of these.”

“Well, you’re welcome, because I think you did thank me somewhere in there, and thank you for this,” said Clint. “Did you steal it or something?”

“One thing about gifts is you don’t question their origin, though I’m pretty curious about where you got this.”

“Flea market in Utica.”

“Huh. Never would’ve thought of that.”

“Really?”

Coulson snorted. “No. I go to flea markets whenever I can. Don’t be an idiot.”

Clint moved his leg over just enough to knock his knee against Coulson’s. “Says the man holding a music box.”

Coulson put his gift on Clint’s side table ( _Clint Barton, side table owner_ , Clint thought to himself) and turned to look at him. “Thank you,” he said, tone warmer than Clint had ever heard from him. “You’re becoming a Christmas pro already.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Coulson confirmed, and from there, for Clint, it seemed like a no-brainer to close the distance between them and brush his lips against Coulson’s. Now, Clint, contrary to some peoples’ beliefs, was not dumb. He’d read the handbook. He knew that romantic relationships between SHIELD agents, even assets and their handlers, were an accepted part of the organization; they were bound to happen, considering the intensity of connections among strike teams, how agents came to rely on each other. And, well, it was SHIELD. There was no one there who wasn’t fit as fuck, and if they were anything like Coulson, they had a face to match the carefully honed physique. A physique that Clint had never really had this kind of contact with before and was drinking in, running his hands along Coulson’s arms, still hidden beneath his suit. That didn’t last long, though, as Coulson initiated another kiss, this one substantially more intense, his tongue in Clint’s mouth, his hands beneath the back of Clint’s t-shirt, thumbs rubbing insistent circles over Clint’s spine. Clint groaned softly and reached up to push Coulson’s jacket off his shoulders, getting a better grip on his forearms—which were, frankly, criminally attractive, from what Clint had seen in the training room and on the range—and taking a break from kissing to bite his way down Coulson’s neck. Phil, actually. It was Phil’s neck now. And what a glorious neck it was.

“This,” Phil said, pulling back slightly. “How long?”

“Why, Agent Coulson, I’ve never heard you sound so ineloquent,” said Clint.

“Don’t evade the question, Barton.”

“Can we get back to ‘Clint’ instead? I liked that better.”

“ _Clint_. How long?”

“Since you shot me.”

Phil paused. “I shot you, and that’s what made you want me.”

Clint shrugged. “I never said I was normal.”

“No,” Phil said fondly. “No, you’re really not.”

“How long?” Clint licked his lips and reveled in the way Phil’s eyes flicked down to look at them. “For you, I mean.”

“It’s ... I’m not proud.”

“Oh, this should be good.”

Phil hung his head slightly. It was adorable, though Clint was fairly certain he’d never say so out loud. “When I got your file and read about who you were and saw your damn mug shot. Have you had a good look at that? It’s ... you’re practically winking at the camera. Any sane person would’ve found you attractive from that on its own.” He hesitated before adding, “And I admired you. Which seems strange, I know. But you’d made this name for yourself—only going after people I’d call objectively ‘bad.’” Phil smiled wryly. “They called you Hawkeye, but I called you Robin Hood.”

“You’re amazing,” Clint blurted out, and Phil’s cheeks reddened, and Clint just had to kiss him for that. And a couple more times, for good measure, which somehow—and Clint wasn’t sure who was maneuvering who, so seamless the motions were—led to Clint flat on his back, Phil on top of him, pulling down Clint’s collar so he could get at Clint’s collarbones. Clint whimpered, an extremely undignified sound that seemed to get a rise out of Phil for whatever reason, and they proceeded to make out like teenagers till Coulson’s alarm went off. He groaned and rolled off Clint into the minimal space at his side before reaching in his pocket for his phone.

“And that’s my reminder to call my family and wish them a merry Christmas,” he said with a sigh.

“You have to remind yourself?”

“I’m a busy man, Clint,” said Phil, and Clint snorted and slipped his legs over the side of the bed. Standing, he pulled Phil with him.

“Let me make you dinner tonight,” Phil said. “Then let me call you every day I’m at my parents’ house.”

“Sure,” said Clint.

“I’m a needy boyfriend.”

“I got that idea.”

“But I bet you are, too.”

“Yeah, it’s chased more than one person away,” said Clint.

“And I’m not always going to be around.”

“Obviously.”

“But when I am—”

“We’ll be together,” finished Clint, and Phil smiled and nodded. “Wait. Boyfriend?”

“It’s the official title I’ll use on our form,” Phil said. “Juvenile, I know. But ... I don’t hate it.”

Clint drew him into a hug. “This is a pretty damn good Christmas, Phil.”

“Pretty damn good indeed,” Phil agreed, conceding to one long hug and three lingering kisses before he left the room. Clint was just glad Natasha wasn’t around to see his ridiculously goofy smile.

_December 25, 2010_

“Your boyfriend is the best looking man I’ve ever seen.”

Clint was pretty sure Phil’s sister didn’t mean for him to hear that. Regardless, he did, and he fought off a blush as he washed his hands and hummed “Christmas Shoes” to himself, trying to make Phil’s reply inaudible. He failed.

“Seriously, Em?” Clint smiled at the incredulity in Phil’s voice. “I mean, I agree. I know he’s ... I know. But you’re my sister. You’re a mother. You’re not supposed to say things like that.” Clint heard a happy gurgle then—Phil was holding Kaya or Emily was. Either way, the baby was thrilled to be alive, and Clint itched to hold her again, but still he waited it out the end of the conversation.

“I’m just congratulating you on a job well done,” said Emily. “He seems really sweet. Funny, too. And Dad likes him.”

“Not Mom?”

“Mom wants to adopt him.”

“Where was she 30 years ago?”

“Wait, is he an orphan or something?”

That was when Clint decided to step in. “Guilty,” he said, sitting down next to Phil. Sure enough, Kaya was in his lap, sucking on one of his fingers. “You done with that baby yet?”

Phil smiled and handed off Kaya to Clint, who stood her on his thighs, tugging at her hands. “You like dancing?” asked Clint. Kaya, who was still under a year old with little hair to speak of and just about the biggest, greenest eyes Clint had ever seen, giggled in response, so he jostled her around a bit. Looking at Emily in the recliner her father usually occupied, he said, “My parents died when I was really young. Ran away to the circus a little while after that. Then eventually, I got collected by this guy.” Clint gestured to Phil.

“SHIELD agents have the best back stories,” Emily said with a sigh.

“I knew your parents knew, but her, too?” Clint turned to Phil, who shrugged.

“She didn’t follow in their NSA agent footsteps,” he said. “But she was at Quantico before she decided she’d rather write.”

“You’d be surprised how well a series about the sex lives of probationary FBI agents sells,” said Emily. “So I quit after I got a book deal, and here we are now, three Agents of Passion books and two kids later. And before you ask, Clint, their dad was an asshole. We divorced before Kaya was even born.”

“Duly noted,” Clint said. “Phil didn’t kick his ass for you?”

Emily rolled her eyes. “Phil was telling me the truth about Nate for years. I just didn’t listen. It’s a Coulson thing.”

“I tend to be pretty fond of Coulson things,” said Clint, cradling Kaya’s head against his shoulder as her eyelids began drooping. “I mean, the first thing your dad asked me was my best story of getting shot, and your mom makes scones. Really good scones. What’s not to like?”

Phil laid his hand on Clint’s thigh. “I’m sure you could think of a few things.”

“I’m not going to try.”

“Please do,” Emily said. “I’ve been trying to get dirt on him since my best friend asked him out in tenth grade.”

“Male or female?”

“Female,” said Phil. “I’ve told you before, I didn’t date a man till college.”

“I didn’t not date a man till I was college age,” Clint said. “Actually, I didn’t really date. Made out with townies behind the circus tents, sure, but no flowers and candy and romantic dinners.” He paused. “Sorry. Am I supposed to talk about making out in front of your sister?”

“She’s 32,” said Phil. “I think she can handle it.”

“Just as long as you don’t kiss in front of me,” Emily said. “Still not sure I can deal with that, no matter how cute you are, Clint.”

“Em.”

“Phil.”

“Ah, siblings.” Clint tried not to think of his own sibling—jailed, as far as he knew, for armed robbery and aggravated assault—and leaned back, taking Kaya, now nodding off, with him. “She always this much of a night owl?”

“It comes and it goes,” said Emily. “She slept in the car for a while earlier, longer than she usually naps. But what time is it? 11?”

“11:30,” Phil said. “That’s why Mom and Dad are asleep, and Liberty’s been in bed for hours.”

“Yeah, unfortunately, she likes falling asleep after 10 since I wake up after 10. But it’s not too exhausting. And Libby loves helping.” Liberty, as Clint recalled, was 7. He resisted the urge to shudder at the thought of having a kid at 25. When he was 25, he’d been ... well, not a SHIELD agent, that was for damn sure. 

“Want me to take her off your hands?” asked Emily. “I should get to bed, too. Libby’s going to wake us up at 6:30, if we’re that lucky. She knows Santa comes a day late at Grandma and Grandpa’s house.”

“Sure,” Clint said, standing and passing Kaya to Emily. Emily smiled.

“Merry Christmas, Clint,” she said. “Merry Christmas, Phil.”

“Merry Christmas,” Clint and Phil said in unison, and Emily was still giggling on her way out.

Clint sat back down next to Phil, slumping against Phil’s shoulder. “You were right,” he said.

“About what?”

“You know what,” said Clint, scoffing. “Your parents. Your sister. Your nieces. Liking me and stuff.”

“I told you that you never had anything to worry about,” Phil said, kissing Clint on the top of the head. “They like that they can talk about my job around you. The people I’ve dated before didn’t necessarily know what I did.”

“That’d be weird,” said Clint, leaning forward slightly. Phil got the message and slung his arm around Clint’s shoulders, and Clint snuggled in closer. “I wish Archie was still awake. I could use some slobber on me.”

“I’m inadequate company in comparison to my father’s yellow Labrador? Hurtful, Barton.”

“I’m just saying, I wouldn’t mind some of your slobber on me.”

“I can’t believe how little game you have.” Clint laughed, and Phil continued, “So good looking, so bad at being suave.”

“Still hooked you,” said Clint. “So I think I have more than enough.”

“By the way,” Phil said, “congratulations on partial completion of your third Christmas lesson: celebrating with a family. So far, you’re doing great.”

“We haven’t even gotten to the Christmas part yet!”

“Yeah, but you’re a gracious houseguest, you complimented my mother’s cooking, and you changed a diaper _and_ played Chutes and Ladders. That’s better than I’ve done in seven years of being an uncle.”

“I’m not an uncle,” said Clint. “I’m just an uncle’s boyfriend. Is there a name for that?”

“I don’t think so,” Phil said. “You know, there is one thing left to do before you move onto the next lesson.”

“What’s that?”

“Successfully achieve orgasm with your romantic partner while under the same roof as your parents or theirs.” Clint coughed, choking on absolutely nothing. “Daunting, I know. But I think you’ll be able to do it. Unless, of course, you’re not up to the challenge.”

“Phil.” Clint took Phil’s hand in both of his and moved it over the front of his pants, which had gotten progressively tighter since they’d started cuddling. “It’s safe to say I’m up to it.”

Phil swallowed hard and stood, pulling Clint with him. They largely kept their hands off each other till they reached the hallway leading to Phil’s childhood bedroom and Phil pushed Clint against the wall, kissing him breathless, pushing his thigh insistently between Clint’s legs.

“We’re not even in the bedroom yet,” Clint said, pulling back just enough to see Phil’s pupils blown wide, his lips already kiss-swollen.

“I know,” said Phil. “Just don’t want you to change your mind.”

Phil swung open the door to his bedroom and wrestled Clint onto the bed, which Clint reveled in for a moment—he was a sucker for being manhandled by Phil, forever and always—before opening his eyes and saying, “Oh, God, Phil, the walls.”

Phil glanced around. “Yeah,” he said with a sigh. “I was afraid you’d notice. Again.” He nodded at the poster nearest to the bed. “That one always freaked my first girlfriend out. I think it’s because it’s not just him staring at you, it’s the USO girls, too.”

When they’d put their overnight bags in the room earlier that day, Clint had thought the Captain America theming was endearing; Phil never gave up on his Cap fandom, and Clint liked that he wasn’t too proud to deny it. But now that Steve Rogers was watching them have sex (or at least watching them get things started), well, it wasn’t quite as endearing.

“Here’s what I’m going to do,” said Phil, leaning up on his elbows, still hovering over Clint. “I’m going to turn out the lights, but first I’ll take down the one that glows in the dark.”

“One of them glows in the dark?”

“It was a limited edition,” Phil said defensively. “So I’ll just grab that—” He un-entwined himself from Clint and walked across the room, pulling down a poster and carefully rolling it up before opening the closet and tossing it in. “And flip off the lights.” He did so, and then he was on the bed again, hips rolling to meet Clint’s. “Better?”

“So much,” said Clint. “How’s the soundproofing of these walls?”

“Terrible,” Phil said. “Think you can shut up for once?”

“You’re really lucky I love you,” said Clint.

“Agreed,” Phil said. “Merry Christmas to me.”

_December 24, 2011 ___

____

“I don’t have to go to Malibu,” Phil announced, dropping his briefcase on the floor with a thud as he walked into the apartment. He and Clint had moved there months before, sometime between New Mexico and the pseudo-resurrection of Captain America. 2011 had been a weird year, all things considered. But at least they had the Prospect Park loft to show for it; they’d both gotten a raise, Phil was at deputy director pay grade now, Clint had reached Level Seven status, and it seemed silly not to own a place together after dating for so long. Clint already practically lived in Phil’s apartment, so why not make it official? At least, that was how Phil put it the day he suggested they look at a few open spaces in their shared favorite neighborhoods. And Phil was right. That happened a lot.

“Since when?” Clint looked up from the magazine he’d been paging through. Stark had made the cover of _Wired_ again, though Clint had yet to figure out why.

“Since Nick realized it was December 24 and he’d be ruining both my and Pepper Potts’ Christmases,” said Phil, sitting down next to Clint on the couch and kissing him. “That was too much guilt for even him.”

“There must not have been that much of a Stark-related fire to put out, then,” Clint said. “That’s awesome, though. I won’t have to disappoint Mom and Dad by coming home without you.”

“They wouldn’t be disappointed. They might even be pleased. What do you want to do for dinner?”

“Thai.”

“Done.” Phil pulled his phone out of his pocket. “Peanut curry, medium heat?”

“You know me so well.” Clint flipped the magazine open again while Phil placed the order. “Did you know that Stark owns six different patents related to clean energy?”

“Do you really want to talk about Stark when I just found out I’m not currently contractually obligated to?”

“That’s fair,” said Clint. “How long?”

“20 minutes.”

“Perfect.” Clint tossed the magazine aside and clambered over Phil’s lap, balancing his knees on either side of Phil’s thighs. “That’s plenty of time for a quickie and a shower and changing into sweatpants for the next two days.”

“Actually, there was something I wanted to ask you about.”

“Yeah?” Clint nipped at Phil’s neck and started unknotting his tie. “Couldn’t that wait?”

“I mean, probably, but—” Phil cut himself off with a moan, and Clint smirked as he began unbuttoning Phil’s shirt.

“Talking’s overrated, is the thing,” said Clint. “And you’re already closer to naked than you were when you got here.”

“For holding that opinion, you sure do talk a lot.” Phil leaned back against the couch, pulling himself further from Clint’s reach. “And actually, I’m not sure it can wait, because this damn thing’s been burning a hole in my pocket for months.” He pushed Clint off his lap and reached into his pocket, retrieving a small velvet box.

“I’m not going to kneel, because I like looking at you straight on.” Phil opened the box. “I was going to do this in New Mexico, but that got a bit messy. And then we made our other huge decision, and I still think we made the right one, by the way, and then Captain Rogers showed up, and you’ve been busy and I’ve been busy and as it turns out, we’re never not going to be busy, but I’d rather us be busy and married than busy and not.” Phil took a breath. “That ... was a lot more rambling than I had planned on.”

“Phil?”

“Yeah?”

“You haven’t actually asked me anything yet.”

“You’re a bastard,” said Phil, his tone so matter of fact, so _Phil_ , that Clint kissed him, not a “Let’s have sex before the delivery guy gets here” kiss but an “I love you and I’ll marry you” kiss, and there was a huge difference, and Clint knew that Phil understood it.

“One condition.” Clint broke off the kiss and looked at Phil.

“What’s that?” Phil looked—well, it was a rare thing, so it was hard for Clint to nail down exactly how Phil looked, but it was something like ecstatic.

“Our names are staying the same,” said Clint. “Clint Coulson doesn’t sound all that great, and Phil Barton sounds even worse.”

“Agreed.”

“So, yeah.” Clint smiled, knowing how goofy it looked and not giving a damn. “I guess I’ll marry you.”

“The county clerk’s office is open again on Monday,” said Phil. “Is it OK with you if it’s just us?”

“It’s OK with me,” Clint said. “It might be less OK with Nat and Fury.”

“Hadn’t thought of that.”

“Well, we’ll extend an invitation.”

“I hope you don’t actually mind,” said Phil. “I mean, not having a ceremony in a church or a reception in, I don’t know, a laser tag arena or something.”

“Of course I don’t mind, Phil,” Clint said, lacing their fingers together, admiring the way the ring looked on his hand. He’d have to see about getting a different shooting glove to accommodate it, if Phil hadn’t done that already. “I’m marrying you. That’s enough celebration to last, I don’t know, forever.”

Phil just looked at him and smiled, smiled the way he did when it was just the two of them. “I’m still so grateful you stepped completely out of line and kissed me, your supervising officer, two years ago.”

“I was not being out of line! I read the manual, and I was well within my rights to kiss you. And then be thoroughly debauched by you.”

“Oh, I was the one doing the debauching?” Phil raised an eyebrow.

“Damn it. You know how hot it is when you do that, right? And you know how close that delivery guy has to be, right?” Clint groaned and flopped back against the couch, pulling Phil with him. “We definitely don’t have a time for a quickie now. We probably don’t even have time for sweatpants.”

“Clint, we always have time for sweatpants.” The doorbell buzzed. “Well, except now.” Phil stood and retrieved the food, wishing the delivery guy a merry Christmas as he left.

“Our first dinner as fiancés, and it’s Christmas Eve Thai,” Clint mused, going to the kitchen for plates and silverware. “This is going to be the best-tasting Thai ever.”

“How many more milestones are you going to mark like that?” asked Phil.

“Every single one I can think of,” Clint said. “Why? Did you hate it?”

“I did.”

“Love you, too, sweetheart,” said Clint, blowing Phil a kiss. “So, Thai food every Christmas Eve, then?”

“We don’t really have any traditions of our own yet, do we?” Phil looked contemplative for a moment, then nodded decisively. “Yeah. Thai food every Christmas Eve.”

“I’m holding you to that.”

“Eat your dinner,” Phil said. “I want you out of your clothes sooner rather than later.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” said Clint with a jaunty salute, laughing as Phil rolled his eyes and dug his chopsticks into his pad Thai.

_December 25, 2012_

Clint had had some pretty shitty Christmases in his time.

Natasha heard about each and every one of them as the two of them lay together on Clint’s bed at Stark-now-Avengers Tower, her stroking his hair occasionally but mostly letting him talk. He went roughly chronologically, skipping the good ones till he got to the post-Phil era.

Clint had mandatory twice-weekly psych appointments, during which he and his therapist discussed the grieving process and how to forgive oneself when one had been briefly brainwashed by an alien trickster god asshole. Why Dr. Allen was uniquely qualified to help him work through that, well, it wasn’t something Clint really thought about, but he was glad it happened. But he only talked to Nat about Phil. Well, and Bruce sometimes, too, because Nat and Bruce were surprisingly close, and Bruce had extended some of that quiet closeness to Clint without ever pushing. Clint liked that, liked it better than Steve’s sad puppy eyes and Thor’s hearty slaps on the shoulder and Tony’s general pomp, which persisted even as he was trying to sympathize with someone over their husband’s death.

“Bruce is making Christmas dinner,” said Nat, sitting up and stretching mid-morning on Christmas Day. She and Clint were both still in pajamas, the hideous but wonderfully comfy custom silk tops and bottoms Tony had gotten them as an early Christmas gift. Each featured a personalized print—bows and arrows for Clint, spiders for Nat—and while it surprised no one that Clint wore his (because hey, purple), Steve’s eyes widened every time he saw Nat slinking around in hers.

“You should shower,” she said. “That’s what I’m going to do before Stark makes us open more gifts he didn’t need to get us.”

“Did you get anything for anyone?”

Nat smiled softly. “Of course I did. Just like I know you were up at 2am, desperately searching Amazon for a dumb hat for Darcy and house slippers for Bruce.”

“Are you monitoring my Internet history?”

Nat shrugged. “Have to make sure you’re not Googling how to properly construct a noose.”

“I know how to make a noose, Nat.” She was the only one allowed to say that kind of thing. She got him. She was the only one left who completely, totally got him. And that meant—well, not everything. But close enough.

All things considered, it probably wasn’t his worst Christmas ever. Granted, Phil’s absence was felt in every possible way. But watching _Santa Claus Conquers the Martians_ with the team while draining pot after pot of Steve’s hot cocoa—well, things could be worse. And he’d gotten a pretty badass armguard from Tony, and a whole bunch of Clancy paperbacks from Nat, and, weirdly, Bucky Barnes’ old watch from Steve.

“I know Agent Coulson was the collector,” Steve said softly as Clint opened the gift. “But I thought—this might be a good way to keep the collection going. And I know for a fact they didn’t make a hundred of those.”

Clint blinked back tears and slung an arm around Steve, the closest he could get to expressing what the gift meant to him. “Thanks, Cap,” he said. “Can I wear it?”

“Of course,” said Steve, laughing gently. “You know, you kind of remind me of him. Smart mouth, great shot, loyal friend. And not so bad on the eyes.”

Considering this was Steve Rogers talking about Bucky Barnes, Clint took that as the best kind of compliment. “Thanks. Again. Seriously.”

“Merry Christmas, Clint.”

“Merry Christmas, Steve.”

.:.

He still went to the Coulsons’ place the next day. He still called Jim and Molly Dad and Mom and chased Kaya and Liberty around and let Archie slobber all over him before they napped together in Phil’s favorite chair. He owed them all that much. But Clint knew it wasn’t the same, not really. And so did the Coulsons. Which made it all more OK, somehow.

OK. But not good. Good wasn’t right around the corner. Couldn’t have been.

_December 28, 2013 ___

“How are they doing?”

“Really well, actually,” said Clint. He and Natasha were recuperating from their respective Christmas activities—Nat had been on a mission in Minsk, and Clint had just gotten back from the Coulsons’—by half-watching _The Real Housewives of New Jersey_ and drinking cocoa. “Dad’s a bit bored with the whole retirement thing. Mom’s making a bunch of costumes for the girls’ dance recitals.”

“And Emily?”

“Working on the latest Agents of Passion novel, and a memoir,” Clint said. “She wants to write something without a pen name for once. Then she realized her parents were NSA and her brother was SHIELD, so that wasn’t going to happen anyway.”

“And ‘the girls?’” Nat employed air quotes as she said it, smiling slightly.

“What am I supposed to call them?” asked Clint, nudging his shoulder against hers. “They’re good. Kaya’s in this kind of pre-preschool thing. Liberty’s in fifth grade. She’s going to get gawky and awkward soon. Phil and Emily both were.”

“Phil was gawky and awkward?” Nat looked intrigued, and Clint rose to his feet.

“Oh, yeah,” said Clint. “And I have proof.” They took the elevator to his floor of the Tower, and he led her to the living room, where three cardboard boxes and their overflowing contents were filling up the table. The wounds had been too fresh to go through Phil’s old stuff the year before. But it was one of the first things Mom had suggested they do when Clint arrived for Christmas 2013. It turned out to be a lot of fun; the pictures of Uncle Phil in his old Halloween costumes and his high school basketball uniform entertained even Liberty, and Clint was thoroughly engrossed in Phil’s old yearbooks.

“The one in the middle has the most pictures,” Clint said. Immediately, Nat took out a pile of them and put her cocoa down—reluctantly, Clint supposed, since they’d both brought their mugs to his floor, not able to part with the thorough deliciousness—to flip through the photos. She held up a snapshot of Phil as a toddler, wrapped up in a snowsuit and laughing as his father scooped him up and slung him over his shoulder.

“It would’ve been nice to have a normal childhood," she said. “If only to have pictures so cute I kind of feel like projectile vomiting.”

“Agreed,” said Clint. “Look at his eyes. Even when he’s not close to the camera, they’re so big. So blue.”

“They let him hold her when she was that small?” Nat handed Clint the next photo she’d found. It had clearly been taking in the hospital shortly after Emily was born, as Mom was next to Phil, still in bed. He was cradling his tiny sister in his arms, looking down at her in wonder.

“He was a responsible kid,” Clint said. “Or so I’m told. Does it surprise you, though? He was Phil motherfucking Coulson.”

Nat smiled. “Yeah. He was.” She examined a picture of Phil at 10 or so, wearing a military costume. She flipped it over. “Oh, he was Bucky Barnes that year. Do you think you’ll keep going to their house for the holidays?”

“Yeah, I think I will,” said Clint. “If I’m available. I’m their son now, more or less. Mom’s a damn good cook, Dad lets me have the remote, and now that Phil’s not around, Emily’s free to show how filthy her sense of humor is.” He paused, running his thumb over Phil’s face in the photo that had become his favorite. There was no indication of what occasion was being commemorated, just Phil in his twenties, bright-eyed and half smiling. “It’s really nice being there. Like you said about having a normal childhood. I can kind of pretend I had that with them. And it feels real. You know?”

“I don’t,” Nat said. “But I believe you.” She tugged the photo out of Clint’s hand. “He was pretty foxy in his younger years.”

“He was pretty foxy in his older years, too,” said Clint.

“Not like this,” Nat said. “Would you have even gone for him like this?”

“Probably,” said Clint. “If I heard him talk, at least. But it’s hard to say. I mean, I fell for the guy because he shot me in the foot. There was never any clear logic to it. The face and the body, those were just convenient bonuses.”

Nat hesitated a moment before saying, “Everyone wants to set you up with someone. Stark thinks you’d get along well with this lawyer he knows. Pepper wants you to date her personal trainer.”

“Pepper has a personal trainer? Huh.”

“Thor still thinks it would be fun if you and the Ladies Jane and Darcy joined him on dates. He has Steve somewhat convinced. And I take it back. It’s not everyone. Bruce talks the rest of them down.”

“And you?”

Nat shook her head as she put the pictures back in the box and picked up her mug. “You’re still wearing your ring, Clint.”

Clint looked down at his hand. “Yeah,” he said. “I just don’t really see a need to take it off.”

“Exactly,” said Nat. “Because there isn’t one, and there won’t be till you’re ready to love someone who isn’t him.”

“That could be never.”

“I know.” Nat leaned against him, and he slipped his arm across her shoulders and squeezed.

“He was one of the good ones, Nat.”

“I know. One of the best.”

“That—you don’t get over that overnight."

“I know.”

“Should I tell them I’m not ready?”

“Let me handle it,” she said.

“Where is everyone, by the way?” asked Clint.

Nat looked up at him and smiled widely. “I talked to Bruce about it before you woke up,” she said. “No one would let Tony make eggnog last night, so Rhodes did it instead. What they didn’t know is Rhodes uses even more alcohol in his. And sugar.”

Clint whistles. “Yikes.”

“Yeah,” said Nat. “Super soldier vomit is kind of beautiful, really.”

“Wait, he—”

“Oh, yes, he did. Bruce thinks it was a combination of the sugar and the alcohol that tipped him over the edge. He felt fine two minutes later, but he’s hiding out. Probably in embarrassment.”

“And Tony and Pepper and Jane and Darcy?”

“Hung over like they’ve never been before.”

“Thor?”

“Comforting Jane.”

“Bruce?”

“Trying very hard not to laugh,” Nat said. “We were the only two smart enough to stick with cocoa.”

“Always the right decision,” said Clint.

“Agreed. Merry Christmas.”

“Indeed,” Clint said, clinking his mug against hers.

_December 24, 2014_

Clint gets the coordinates from Maria Hill on Christmas Eve. She doesn’t say anything more than “You’re needed.” He doesn’t ask for more clarification, doesn’t need it. Since the fall of SHIELD, he’s been bouncing around a lot, always under her watchful eye. Maria’s a good liaison. With Phil gone, he really couldn’t ask for better. So when Maria says to do something, Clint does it. And so he heads for the coordinates, which take him to British Columbia, and he can’t help smiling at the memory that dredges up.

It was years ago now, the first time they’d had sex on a mission. They’d been together for months, so it wasn’t their first time, period, but it was definitely the first time in a safe house, smack dab in the middle of Vancouver. It hadn’t been too rough a mission, so they celebrated, still undercover as tourists, getting tipsy and stumbling back to their hotel. At first it was just some drunken fumbling over the clothes; then, as they began sobering up, Phil hissed into Clint’s ear, asking if he really wanted to do this, like, _really_ , and of course Clint stammered out a “God, yes,” and then they were horizontal and Phil was pulling lube out of ... somewhere, how the _fuck_ did he have it on him? Clint didn’t care because at some point their pants and shoes and socks and underwear (well, in Phil’s case, Clint didn’t really see the need) had been shed and they were rutting against each other, Phil barely having time to open Clint up and push his way inside before they both went off. It had been, through the inebriated haze, some of the shortest, hottest sex of Clint’s life.

So, yeah, Clint’s got a special place in his heart for British Columbia.

When he arrives at what’s pretty obviously an old Strategic Science Reserve base, he puts his hand to the ID pad, only a little surprised when the door opens for him. Clint’s been established as SHIELD loyal by now, and since this appears to be a SHIELD base, it follows that his universal access would let him in, no matter how remote they are. And they are very, very remote. There’s no one in sight at first, then Clint spots a pair of legs protruding from beneath an SUV.

“Hello?” he calls out, and soon the guy the legs belong to is making his way over to Clint with a slightly wary but not entirely unfriendly look on his face. Clint takes in his frankly ridiculous body and eyes that can only be described as naturally smoldering, wondering how many people are on this base and how many of them this guy has seduced. A not-insignificant number, Clint imagines.

“Barton, right?” The man extends a hand. “Sorry about the grease. I’m Mack. Resident mechanic, occasional grave robber.”

Clint smiles and shakes his hand. Strong grip, not over the top. He likes this guy already, especially considering the “grave robber” quip. Hopefully he’ll hear that story eventually. “Call me Clint. I only like ‘Barton’ over comms, and even then I prefer ‘Hawkeye.’”

“Or maybe Robin Hood?” A younger woman walks in then, maybe not young enough to be Clint’s daughter, but it’s a near thing. She’s a bit slight but she looks strong, and the light in her eyes is definitely playful. “That’s what AC calls him.”

Clint decides not to question who AC is right now. He raises his hand. “Yup. That’s me. Stealing from Hydra and giving to SHIELD or something like that. And you are...?”

“Skye,” she says. “Just Skye. Relative newbie. Former hacktivist.”

“Nice portmanteau,” says Clint. “One of the welcome wagon, I assume?”

“Yeah, the others are ... well, you probably know where Fitz is better than I do,” she says, addressing Mack, who looks very mildly embarrassed before returning to his default expression of pure handsomeness. It’s a little disgusting, really. Sure, Phil was singularly attractive, but this guy—it’s just over the top. Skye should be grateful for the eye candy, even if this Fitz person is distracting Mack.

“Fitz,” Clint repeats. “Sounds familiar. Is that ... Leo Fitz? SHIELD scientist?”

“Got it in one,” says Skye. “He and Jemma Simmons are both on base, along with Lance Hunter—”

Clint nods. “Merc. I know him. He’s SHIELD now?”

“More or less,” says Mack.

“And Bobbi Morse, and Melinda May, and Antoine Triplett. And, of course, AC. Although I’m thinking that’s DC now, come to think of it.”

Clint whistles. “Don’t know this AC/DC person, but that’s a pretty solid roster you got there.”

Mack and Skye exchange a look.

“You don’t know who DC is?” Skye asks.

“Well, the nickname is new, as of less than a minute ago,” says Mack.

“You could tell me,” Clint says. “Just a thought.”

Skye looks over Clint’s shoulder. “Or he could.”

Clint turns to look at whomever Skye’s referring to. When he sees a dead man walking, he feels his knees give out and collapses to the floor, where the last thing he hears is, “This was probably not the best way to tell you.”

.:.

Clint comes to in a hospital bed. There’s a perky-looking brunette flitting around while a curly-haired, cardigan-clad boy—and Clint can’t think of him as a man, not when he looks that young and that vulnerable—sits in the corner, fiddling with something out of _Star Trek._

“Um, hi,” he says. “You guys know you got a ghost on your team, right?”

“Oh, good, Agent Barton, you’re awake!” the girl says brightly. “I’m Jemma Simmons, and this is Leo Fitz.”

“Yeah, Fitz I’ve heard of, you made one of my favorite arrows,” says Clint. “Jemma, I’ve heard your name. Nice to meet you, love the makeshift hospital setup, et cetera. Phil Coulson isn’t alive.”

“Actually, he is,” Fitz says. “Long story. He’ll—said he’d let you know.”

“If you’ll listen,” Jemma adds. “You were close, right?”

“Married is pretty close, yeah,” says Clint. “And he’s been alive all along?”

“His livelihood was classified,” Jemma says. “Especially protected from the Avengers.”

“Including his husband. Sure. Seems sensible.” Clint feels like passing out again. Maybe then he can go back to the sad reality of no Phil rather than the extremely confusing reality of Phil alive and far away from him. Well, till now.

Melinda comes in then, along with Bobbi, and that’s better. These people, he knows. And he knows them to be alive. So that’s something. He sits up to hug Bobbi and nods at Melinda. He knows her well enough to know her feelings on hugs.

“So, secret SHIELD base, filled with SHIELD agents, but there is no SHIELD,” says Clint. “How does that work?”

“Director Coulson’s building SHIELD back up,” Bobbi says.

“We’re not exactly winning many battles,” says Melinda. “But we’re on our way.”

“And Hill thinks you should be here for a while,” Bobbi says. “Sam Wilson will be the Avengers’ relief pitcher while you do the other thing you do best, aside from falling out of buildings.”

“And crashing through windows into buildings,” says Clint. “That’s important, too. So ... Robin Hood all over again?”

“That’s the general idea,” Bobbi says, smiling at him. “Phil was the one who wanted it.”

“Director,” Clint says. “When’d that happen?”

“After the fall,” says Melinda. “Fury’s appointed successor.”

“And that’s when he gave us Maria,” Clint says. He wants to ask if Melinda knows Fury is still alive (a running theme today, it seems). Maybe later. “Sure. When do I get to see Phil again?”

“That depends,” says Melinda. “Are you going to pass out again? Or punch him?”

“Or initiate angry sex in the middle of the hangar?” Everyone in the room turns to look at Bobbi, who shrugs. “You guys clearly don’t know him very well if you think that’s out of the realm of possibility.”

“Fair point,” says Clint. “But no. I won’t do any of those things. Just—I assume I have quarters here?”

“Yeah, Mack took your stuff there. I can show you,” Bobbi says. “I think you’re going to like them.”

Clint smiles when Bobbi swings open the door to his new digs. Somehow, they’ve replicated his SHIELD dorm but added enough more space that it feels like somewhere an adult lives, not a baby agent. It’s not quite Phil and Clint’s bedroom in their Prospect Park loft, but it’s homey in its own way.

“Should I send him up?” Bobbi asks.

“May as well,” says Clint. “If you hear any thudding noises—”

“I’ll assume those are normal,” Bobbi says. “It’s good to see you, Clint.”

“You too.” She closes the door behind her, and he lies back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. He wonders if the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck there are the same ones Phil bought him years ago when he’d mentioned that he was disappointed he missed out on those as a kid.

“How do you even know that those exist?” Phil had asked him shortly before they appeared on his ceiling.

“I’ve been to a grocery store before, Phil,” Clint had said. “They may have not existed yet in my childhood, but they do now, and I’m pissed they don’t exist in my adulthood yet.”

He smiles faintly at the memory and closes his eyes for maybe a minute or two before he hears a knock on the door.

“Come in, Lazarus,” he says. “Don’t want you to go disappearing again.”

Phil walks in and pulls out the desk chair, sitting, looking a bit uneasy. His sleeves are rolled up, but he’s still got one of his favorite ties on, one Clint got him four Christmases ago. Arrows are involved, though subtly. Clint doesn’t miss the significance of this being the one Phil chose today.

“I kind of expected you to punch me,” says Phil. “Not pass out. It’s the only time I’ve seen you doing that when your intestines weren’t sliding out of your body.”

“Graphic, Phil,” Clint says. “Wait, do I call you ‘Director’ now?”

“Hot as that is,” says Phil, “I prefer hearing you say my name again.”

Clint turns to look at him, not just out of the corner of his eye now. He sits up slightly, as though he’s ready to have an actual conversation. Maybe he is. He really doesn’t know.

“Well, Phil,” he says, choosing his words carefully. “Why didn’t you try to get to me sooner?”

“I—“ Phil hesitates. “I was ... different. There was this program, TAHITI.”

“Saw the files on that one after the Great Romanov Leak of 2014, yeah,” says Clint. “Names were redacted then, haven’t bothered to check since. Alien blood? Memory reconstruction? Did they take me out or something?”

“Oh, God, no,” Phil says. “But they did erase the part where I begged for death rather than what the surgery turned out to be.” Clint winces. “Yeah, that’s kind of where I was for a long time, too. Really pissed at Nick. Sometimes I still am, because there’s this part of me that doesn’t feel like me. I know I’m still who I was before. I love the same things, I’m still devoted to the same causes.” He looks down at his hands. “But ... I don’t know if I’ll ever be quite whole again. Unless...” He swallows hard and glances up at Clint. “You always filled me up before. I think you could again. If you were willing.”

“Still trying to wrap my head around this,” says Clint. “I mean, you died, and you came back, and you didn’t even attempt to get to me—”

“Oh, I did,” Phil says. “Private channels, coded messages, everything Skye could come up with—we tried it, and there was nothing. She knew what you are to me. What you never stopped being. It’s—it’s one of the reasons she trusts me. Maybe the most important one. And she’s good, Clint. She’s really good.”

“I kind of got that idea,” says Clint. “Have you adopted her yet?”

Phil smiles faintly. “I think she’s a little old for that. Also, she has a dad who’s already trying to kill me, so...”

“Yeah, maybe not the best plan,” says Clint. “So you did try. And you just couldn’t.”

“Mostly Nick’s doing, obviously,” Phil says. “But it was also Streiten, and the other people behind TAHITI. They thought—I don’t know what they thought, really. They were protecting me, that’s what Nick said. That never made sense to me, since my safety—it’s always come from you. For years, it has.”

Clint feels tears drip down his face and doesn’t bother to wipe them away. “I was in mandatory psych sessions,” he says. “Then in deep cover. Then with the Avengers. Mostly them, eventually. Everyone had their own existential crisis at some point. I just got done first.”

“Seems about right,” says Phil. “I wanted Maria to call you sooner, but she said they needed you immediately after the whole ... you know.”

“Yeah.”

“But I convinced her. I might have played the Christmas card.” Phil clears his throat. “Clint, can I—”

“ _God_ , Phil,” says Clint. “Do you even have to ask?” He stands, and Phil stands, and Phil’s arms are around him and holding him and even though he’s been close to whole for a while now, he hasn’t felt contentment like this swelling up inside him since the last time he kissed Phil. And that’s what he does now, soft and sweet and loving till it’s definitely not the first two things but decidedly still the third. They collapse onto the bed, just like the first time, but now they know how to fit their bodies together just right, how Phil’s more comfortable over than under and Clint’s happy as long as he has access to Phil’s shoulders and arms. Shirts come off, then pants and shoes and socks, and Phil’s not wearing underwear either, which, _fuck_ , maybe this Phil is even better than the first one, and there’s no time for anything more than thrusting against each other till they’re both spent and somewhat uncomfortable with stickiness.

“If I don’t move off you now,” says Phil, “it’s going to hurt a lot more later.”

“Yeah, but when’s the last time we got to do this?”

“I promise you’ll get your post-coital cuddling.” Phil stands and reaches for the nearest pair of pants. They’re Clint’s jeans. He shrugs and pulls them on anyway, along with Clint’s henley.

“That almost seemed deliberate,” says Clint.

Phil shrugs one shoulder and smiles. “I like the way your clothes smell. I’ll be right back.” He rushes off and, as promised, returns within what feels like 30 seconds, towels in hand. He tosses one to Clint and keeps one for himself as he crawls back onto the bed. Clint drops the towel on the ground and Phil’s joins his as Phil curls around Clint, one leg draped over both of his, fingers running through Clint’s hair.

“It’s getting long,” Phil observes. “Were you in cover for a while?”

“Yeah, but this was just me being lazy,” says Clint. “You like it?”

“I’ve never had any outstanding problems with any of your choices regarding your physical appearance, Clint,” Phil says. “Maybe you haven’t noticed, but you’re very attractive. Unreasonably so.”

“Yeah? Same to you.” Clint turns in Phil’s arms and kisses him on the forehead. “Speaking of, did you really have to staff this station with only good-looking people? The scientists are more cute than hot, granted, and Skye’s a little too borderline jailbait for me, but shit, Phil. Bobbi? Trip? That mechanic who’s probably not even a real person, just the platonic ideal of manliness?”

Phil laughs. “Yeah, Mack’s alright. But I think Fitz has dibs. So I’m sorry if you were looking for an out.”

“I’m never going to look for one of those,” Clint says softly, reaching for Phil’s jaw and gently nudging it closer to his. “I mean that.” He kisses Phil.

“It goes without saying that I’m not looking for one, either,” says Phil.

“Then why’d you say it?”

“There’s the bastard I know and love.”

Clint sighs, heavily, happily. “I should clarify, I never so much as looked at another person.”

“Till Mack.”

“That was more observance than checking him out,” says Clint. “Really, it was just, like, OK, if someone’s not Phil, then they’re not for me.”

“No one on my side, either,” Phil says. “We did run into Audrey at one point.”

“Awkward?”

“We didn’t speak,” says Phil. “She—I don’t think she ever really understood that I valued her friendship, nothing more. Even the time she walked in on us.”

“That was only the fifth time we’d ever had sex on a mission,” Clint says. “Nat was in the next room, pretending not to hear anything.”

“We tried so hard to be quiet.”

“We failed miserably.”

Phil smiles at Clint. “You don’t ever have to leave, do you?”

“Maria said I’d be here two weeks.”

“That... That’s longer than I expected. Granted, I’d prefer forever, but I’m assuming Wilson’s going to get tired in time. He is your replacement, right?”

Clint nods. “He’s great. I really like that guy. It’s good for Steve to have someone like him around.”

“I’m guessing he’s not as good as you are.”

“Of course not,” Clint says with a scoff, and Phil laughs. “I mean, he has actual wings. So that’s a bonus there. But I’m still the World’s Greatest Marksman, and don’t you fucking forget it, Philip James Coulson.”

“I would never,” says Phil, faux solemn. “You ready for bed?”

“Depends,” Clint says. “You want to see the silk pajamas Stark got me?”

“More than anything in the world.”

“And you want to wear my backups?”

“Do you even have to ask?”

“Then show me to the sink so we can kiss some more, this time with minty fresh breath.”

“I love you,” says Phil.

“With you there, Director,” Clint says, winking exaggeratedly till Phil groans and drags him to the bathroom.

.:.

One of Clint’s favorite times of day always used to be the moment when Phil’s eyes fluttered open and he looked for Clint and smiled. It was a sleepy, slow smile, like he was too tired to do it immediately, but then it was there and it was perfect and Clint would kiss him, and then they would start their day because that had been sorted out. Now, Christmas morning, Clint gets to revisit that routine, and he can’t think of any better present than that.

“I missed this,” says Phil. “So much.”

“Me too,” Clint says. “Merry Christmas. I didn’t get you a gift. Kind of didn’t think you were alive and all.”

“Understandable,” says Phil. “I have one for you, but I had some advance notice of your arrival, so...”

“Unfair advantage.”

“Right.”

“I could just give you morning sex,” Clint says. “Unless you’re not into that anymore.”

“They didn’t change everything, Clint,” says Phil. “Do I really have a time of day when I’m not interested in having sex with you?”

“Mid-afternoon,” Clint says. “Because more often than not, we were on a mission or you were in your office, and we didn’t do it a lot on missions, especially not in the middle of them, and we definitely never did it in your office. Except for that one blow job, and you owed me then.”

“Right, because of the broken ankle in Madrid.”

“Because of the broken ankle in Madrid,” Clint confirms. “Not our greatest success.”

“Eh, we caught the bad guys,” says Phil.

“We usually did.”

“Most successful missions by percentage of any strike team in the entire organization.”

“We kicked a lot of ass, Phil,” Clint says. “And I’m pretty sure Natasha’s not listening, but in case she is, Nat, you were a huge part of that.”

“I miss her, you know,” says Phil.

“She misses you. Can I...”

“Yeah, I’m OK with her knowing,” says Phil. “Just be gentle with it.”

“Like you were with me?”

“Ha, ha. What was that about morning sex?” Phil clambers on top of him with all the grace of a 16-year-old, and Clint smirks.

“I believe I offered it as a gift.”

“Then I believe,” says Phil, “I’ll accept it.”

.:.

By the time they make it to the lounge, the team is gorging on pancakes and waffles while Trip watches them all smugly.

“You always were a decent cook,” says Clint, coming up to Trip and slinging an arm around his shoulders. “One of the best people to get stuck in a poorly stocked safe house with for sure.”

Trip grins. “Good to see you, too, Hawkeye. Get lucky last night?”

“Gentlemen don’t bang their superiors and tell, Trip,” Clint says, and Clint can practically hear Phil’s eyes rolling. Skye doesn’t even bother to stifle her laughter, while Jemma, Hunter, and Bobbi make valiant efforts. The others seem unaffected, either because they’re pros (Melinda) or focused a bit too hard on each other (Fitz and Mack).

“So, this is our Christmas breakfast, then?” Phil asks Trip. “Who’s cooking dinner?”

“Bobbi’s on turkey duty,” says Trip. “Fitz and Mack and Jemma are on sides. And I heard you can bake.”

“Easier when I have the right assistance,” Phil says. “Clint, are you still preternaturally gifted at forming a pie crust?”

“Of course I am,” says Clint. “That’s the kind of skill that never goes away.” He sits down at the table, where Trip’s already loaded up a plate of waffles for him and pancakes for Phil. “How’d you know my preference?”

“Good memory,” Trip says, shrugging. “Also, I figured you guys are a gross enough couple that you can trade bites.”

“Not from each other’s forks,” says Phil, shaking his head before he takes his first bite.

“Yeah, that’s a little over the top.” Clint shovels a bite of waffle into his mouth and groans. “OK, screw the two weeks, I’m never leaving.”

“I guess the combination of sex and waffles would be reason enough for any sane man,” Hunter says thoughtfully, and Fitz and Jemma both sputter slightly, having made the mistake of taking sips of orange juice.

“The only reason I’m accepting this level of insubordination is because it’s Christmas,” says Phil. “I hope you all know that.”

“Sure thing, boss,” Skye says. “We decided not to do presents, right? Because of the whole ‘secret spies can’t leave their bases unless they’re on missions or retrieving Christmas trees’ thing?”

“I got better scotch than usual,” says Hunter. “To share, that is. But that doesn’t count, does it?”

“Nope,” Bobbi says. “But it’s better than I did.”

“I thought it was an actual rule,” says Mack. “So, yeah. I didn’t go out of my way. Got something for you, though, Turbo.”

Jemma mutters something that sounds a lot like “Of course you did.”

“And I got something for everyone,” says May. Nine heads turn to look at her. “Well, OK, technically, it’s from the director per my request. Three days’ leave, effective tomorrow morning.”

“Alright, now that’s a kickass present,” says Skye. “Who wants to go out tonight?”

“It’s Christmas,” Fitz reminds her. “Nothing’s open. Tomorrow, maybe.”

“Or the day after, or the day after that,” says Jemma. “The possibilities are endless!”

“Wow,” Clint says. “You guys really don’t get out much, do you?”

“Bad things tend to happen when we do,” says Skye. “But three days! The havoc we can wreak!”

Phil taps Clint on the back of the hand. “You want your present now?”

“I’ve only eaten two waffles in two minutes, Phil.”

“Trip’s waffles are roughly the size of your head,” says Phil. “I think you’ll be OK. Assuming you don’t vomit.”

Clint sighs theatrically. “Fine. We’ll see you all later.” There’s a chorus of goodbyes and merry Christmases that Clint hardly hears because Phil’s hand is in his again and they’re going to Phil’s quarters this time.

“Wow,” he says when they step through the door. “You... You really liked our place, didn’t you?”

“It’s not an exact match,” says Phil. “I did get our bed, though, if you’d like to revisit that later.”

“How’d you sleep in it without...” Clint shakes his head as he sinks down onto it, reveling in the scent of Phil’s favorite detergent. “I just don’t know if I could even sleep in this on my own unless I knew you were coming back.”

“It hasn’t always been easy,” says Phil. “But I needed something of you.”

Clint pulls Phil down next to him. “And now you have all of me.”

“For 13 days.”

“We’ll make ’em count. Now, I believe you have something for me?”

Phil nods and reaches for the chest at the end of the bed. Lifting the lid, he pulls out a small silver box with a purple ribbon, handing it to Clint. Clint unties the ribbon and pulls off the top to reveal a bullet, stained with what looks like rust but Clint knows is blood.

“Phil,” he says. “Was this bullet in my foot once?”

“Yeah,” says Phil. “And I put it there. What do you think?”

“I think you’re insane, and that I love you,” Clint says, dropping the bullet back in the box and pushing it to the side before kissing Phil messily.

“You,” says Phil, “are literally the only person I’ve ever met who would be happy to receive such a thing.”

“Well, it’s like where it all started for us, right?” Clint asks. “I mean, you always get me stuff from missions we did together. And that was your mission. I was your objective.”

“I got a lot more out of that than I anticipated,” says Phil, kissing Clint again, grasping his wrists. He runs his thumb over the band of Clint’s watch, the watch that used to be Bucky’s, and pulls back slightly to look down at it. “I must have been distracted yesterday. I didn’t notice this. Is it new?”

Clint laughs. “Actually, it’s really old, and you’re probably going to lose your shit when you find out what it is.”

“Well, I’m assuming it’s a watch. A vintage watch.”

“Yeah, vintage, meaning I got it from Steve because he wanted to add to your posthumous Captain America and the Howling Commandoes collection,” says Clint. “It was Bucky’s.”

“This was Bucky Barnes’ watch,” Phil says.

“Yup.”

“Bucky Barnes, the Winter Soldier?”

“Oh, so you heard about that? Yeah. He’s—Steve hasn’t found him yet, but he’s working on it. I think. Sam was helping him, but not right now, obviously.”

“And Captain Rogers gave you his watch?”

“Yeah, two years ago,” says Clint. “He told me I reminded him of Bucky a bit, actually. I think he said I wasn’t too bad on the eyes. It was weird. But sweet. He’s both those things kind of a lot. I think you guys would really get along, actually.” Clint looks at Phil, who’s still running his hand over the soft leather of the watchband. “Taking a while to sink in, then?”

“I guess I just forgot that there was a possibility you might be friends with Captain America,” Phil says.

“I haven’t had the chance to say this in way too long: you, Phil Coulson, are adorable.”

“Don’t tell anyone that, OK? I’ll lose my cred.”

“I would never,” says Clint. “Thanks for the bullet.”

“Thanks for letting me fondle your watch.”

“Anytime. Want to fondle something else now?”

“You cannot possibly be ready for another round, Clint.”

Clint gently tugs Phil’s hand away from his watch and moves it to the front of his pants. “Try me.”

Phil smiles, going from adorable to sexy in record time, as he has so many times before. “Gladly,” he says, maneuvering Clint till they’ve assumed what’s always been one of Clint’s favorite positions. “You know I love you, right?”

“Of course I know that,” says Clint. “But there’s no need to stop reminding me. In more than one way, even.”

“OK. I love you.”

“I love you, too. Is the door locked?”

Phil waves his hand dismissively before moving it to Clint’s jaw and angling it upward so he can more easily brush his lips against Clint’s. “They know better. And if they don’t, well, they’ll learn.”

“Have I mentioned how glad I am that you’re alive?”

“I could stand to hear it a few more times.”


End file.
